


Untitled Motel Porn #1

by uschickens



Series: Untitled Motel Fic [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-08
Updated: 2006-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uschickens/pseuds/uschickens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam presses down with his right hand even as he gives his left hand a vicious little twist, keeping Dean from bucking into the motion of his hand and popping stitches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Motel Porn #1

So there's Sam and Dean in - wait for it - a crappy motel room. Sam's fully dressed but with bare feet, battered and filthy jeans riding low on his hips, getting the off-white sheets dirty as he kneels on the foot of the bed. He's got on a dark t shirt over a white henley, the sleeves of the henley pushed up to just below his elbows, the cuffs stretched to straining over his forearms, especially when he flexes the fingers on his left hand that he's got buried deep inside Dean.

Dean, you see, is naked on the bed, a neat line of Sam's freshly sewn stitches cutting a black streak across his ribcage and hip, blood - too dark to be human - still staining his face, neck, and forearms. Almost a farmer's tan of demon's blood, bruises already blossoming on his shoulder and thighs, dark against the pale, smooth skin of his torso. His hand are twisted in the sheets that have ended up tangled with the pillows. He is leaving bloodstains, and they will have to burn the sheets before they leave. But for the moment, neither of them pay that any attention at all.

Sam's hand is large and brown on Dean's stomach; spread wide, pinky to thumb, his hand can almost span Dean's entire breadth. Sam presses down with his right hand even as he gives his left hand a vicious little twist, keeping Dean from bucking into the motion of his hand and popping stitches. Dean swears at him, a steady, creative stream of profanity, but he presses his hips back into the bed. Sam meets his eyes, and Dean bites out even harsher words - cursing everything but Sam's relations - but nods shortly, sharply. Sam smiles. Keeping up the steady motion of his left hand, he slides his right hand down Dean's body, letting his fingers draw little circles across the skin right above where Dean's hair starts in earnest until Dean swears at him again, then wraps his hand around Dean's cock.

There is a callus on Sam's right index finger. Really, both of Sam's hands are well-callused, slowly building back up to their pre-college sturdiness, but this is the callus on his trigger finger. Just a little spot on the first joint of his first finger that's tougher than his fingertips, which he keeps deliberately soft and smooth.

(The more sensitive your fingertips are, the easier it is to pick locks, tell the difference between vervain and nightshade in the dark, and a host of other useful things. When Sam was fourteen, Dean used to help him rub the sandpaper across his fingers, help him keep from jerking his hands away, would run his own fingertips across Sam's hands, red and hot to the touch but never actually bleeding, to see if he was done. Dean was careful with his little brother's hands trapped between his own, but he never stopped early, never went easy on Sam. These days, Sam works on his own hands. Sometimes he bleeds.)

Sam jerks Dean off steadily, just this side of too rough, with his rough palm and soft fingertips, making Dean shift his shoulders restlessly. He rubs that small callus against that small spot just beneath the head of Dean's cock, which makes Dean howl and writhe up off the bed, even as his hips stay still. Sam is kneeling over Dean's left leg, flat against he mattress, and Dean's right leg is bent up, with his foot planted flat on the bed. His heels scrabble against the destroyed sheets as he tries to spread his legs further, open himself to Sam even more. Sam balances his brother between his two hands, fucking him hard with three fingers and jerking his cock with a rhythm just short of savage, leaving Dean unsure - or unable to decide - which way to thrust.

Dean makes a futile attempt to lift his left leg, to brace himself open to Sam's hands, but Sam is too heavy, too close to him. Dean ends up shoving his naked thigh up against Sam's cock, and Sam cannot help but groan and thrust against Dean. His jeans are rough against the unexpectedly soft skin of Dean's inner thigh as Sam closes his legs around Dean, but this only makes Dean jerk his leg up again. This time, the rhythm of Sam's hands falter, and Dean seizes the moment to rear up and catch Sam's mouth in a kiss that is all teeth and tongue.

Dean props himself up with both hands, using only his mouth on Sam. Sam tries to deflect Dean’s intensity, soften his mouth and regain control, but Dean will not let him. They feed off of and into each other, Dean caught between the twist and roll of Sam’s hands, Sam held by Dean’s mouth and leg.

Dean shifts all his weight to his right hand and lifts his left to Sam’s face. His fingers are soft, shaking just a little, in contrast to the fierceness of his kiss. Sam pulls his mouth away from Dean’s reluctantly, then turns to nip, just a little, at Dean’s fingertips. Dean presses against Sam’s lips, hot and swollen, and Sam lets his fingers slip inside his mouth. He sucks at them hard, running his tongue over the too-sensitive fingertips, as if the taste of his brother’s skin stained with inhuman blood were the most natural thing ever.

And, for them, maybe it is.


End file.
